The Long Rains Conclude

IIII ) lllllllllllllll Many Redwing Nests (17June11)

0915 Just saw some of those at-risk long-billed curlews on agricultural lands of the north end... you know, the ones who don't really nest here according to the oil and gas environmental impact surveys. Oh, but it's nesting season right now, isn't it? Must have just been a figment of my imagination, returning every year

1515 Sspopiikimi - the proverbial calm before the storm, I arrive under a warm bit of sunlight that glows as it only does when, as today, massive thunderstorms are about to ensue. No doubt I will be drenched by the deluge within a very short while. But with a packed couple of days ahead, I need the pond right now to get my mind back in order

1521 It's that season now when I feel compelled to start anew the project of learning to recognize all the different grass species here. The field guides available to assist in such endeavors are fairly unhelpful. None of them are flowering as yet, but I suspect they're close, and I take pictures of some of them as I make my way to the first stop on today's round, the big thatching ant hive. The fare this afternoon among these largest of local ants consists of sidewalk carabid beetles. When I arrive at the mound, the residents are in the midst of hauling three such beetles, kicking and fighting, up the side of the hive and into the passages. Perhaps unbeknownst to them, there is a running crab spider waiting in the grass nearby for any unlucky ants who stray out in her direction

1551 Once the thatchers have begun biting my sandaled feet, I move on to survey the north-pond cutbank. Here I find three large wandering garter snakes basking. They are definitely rodent eaters, these three, and one of them is so swollen she doesn't even move when I squat down to have a look at her. I know these snakes to be constrictors, though it's a disputed topic. I videotaped one working on a deer mouse two years ago, and it was clear that the rodent was dead from suffocation before the snake began feeding. During summer, I always check along this cutbank with the hopes of witnessing the same again. Today, I'm also checking to see if the absinthe spiders (my name) have begun wrapping their webs around the dry seed-heads of last years stalks. They haven't, but I expect that phenological event to happen at any time. There are, however, several butterflies - pearl crescents, inornate ringlets, and spring azules - whose wings are so damp from recent bouts of rain that they can't really fly. I reach down and pick up a spring azule, letting it crawl around on my fingers a bit before setting it back in the grass. Below me, on the pond, there are dozens of painted turtles basking on the floating planks of the old boardwalk. And where I sit down to make these notes, near the redwing nest at the north reeds, there are small orange ants (of a species I don't know) working to drag the tail of a damselfly into one of the flush-to-the-earth-surface entrances to their subterranean hive

1646 I check on the north-pond redwing nest as I pass, and find it is being incubated. Still the same four eggs as last week. About the time I enter the forest main - checking in on the large slave ant complex, where they are hauling leaf clippings around- the dark clouds roll overhead, bringing with them a wind. I'm pretty sure a deluge is near, and so I fairly hustle out to the wet meadows to drop my pack and wade out to the bulberry island where RYECAM02 is set up. It seems that, unlike the river, the depth of the pond's flooding has continued to increase over the week. It is now impossible to cross at the mere thigh-depth of last year. I hike my shorts up at the sides 70's style and wade across, but my crotch still gets wet. Inside the bulberries, there is no longer any exposed land at all. The water would still have to rise another couple feet to reach the height of my camera though. I download the SD card. There are over a hundred images collected, so I'll wait to check them out back at home tonight

1736 By the time I get back to the shore, it's apparent that the storm is skirting off toward the south, and that my likelihood of getting rain-soaked is minimal. During last week's visit, I found a giant water bug guarding her egg cache on a bit of floating wood along this shore. I figure today I'll walk the edge to the duck blind and see if I come across others doing the same. I don't have to go too far before getting results. Right below the swainson nest, where incubation continues, I find a small piece of floating log with a cluster of eggs. There's no giant water bug mama guarding them from atop, as before. But when I left the log, there she is. The bug drops and swims down to hide in the submerged foliage below. Continuing on, I come across another redwing nest near the waters edge, just past the hawk nest, in some buckbrush that will be easily remembered for the small honeysuckle tree flowering beside it. The nest has three new hatchlings. Similarly, when I arrive at the duck blind, I find these eggs have hatched as well, and there are three slightly larger babies within. The father redwing is, of course dive-bombing me. The mother perches off a distance with a mouthful of baby food that, through my camera lense, I can distinguish as comprised of two parts damselfly, one part green caterpillar. I have no idea where she found the caterpillar, but I'm curious to see if she'll find another. So I am backing off now, to observe from a distance

1819 Nothing doing. Papa redwing is totally onto my tactics, and it seems he's ordered mama not to bring her food to the nest, and betray it's position, even though he already saw that I located it. Mama gives little begging calls and flaps her wings at him like a fledgling, but somehow it's communicated to her that she must not. The only way I'm going to learn where she's gathering the green caterpillars, and by extension what they are, is to return another day and keep my distance from the start. So I pick up and head out Through the forest main, to the levee and shale trail, and follow this around the south pool and west length, back to my vehicle. Along the way, I pass the Four Square goose family (four adults, four goslings). The second family with the traditional two parents appear to have moved away from the pond, it's been a couple visits since I've seen them. The mallard mother, with her now six ducklings, remain in the big puddle surrounding the golf course pump-house. There's plenty of vegetation hide in here, as well as invertebrates and plants to eat. The chorus frogs are still singing from this same puddle and, to my surprise, there are turtles who have moved over as well. It always fascinates me how aquatic animals can sense new habitats developing beyond their line of sight

IIII ) llllllllllllllllll Fungi Day (20June11)

1317 Onion day turned out to be fungi day... we filled several bags fairy ring mushrooms and giant puffballs. Might go check out the onion situation at the confluence a bit later

IIII ) llllllllllllllllllll Mosquito Swarms (22June11)

1225 Pitsiiksiinaikawaahko - Off to a late start this morning, owing to a general lethargy, or maybe the sense of being overwhelmed. Happens every summer. This is solstice time, the long rains have subsided, and the world of the coulees is just absolutely buzzing with life. It's now or never to really stockpile a winter supply of botanic foods, but all I want to do is look around in amazement

1249 From rim to hibernaculum, my usual half-way-down stopping point, I note all the same plants and insects as recorded during my last visit, but everything is larger and now more abundant: a variety of vetches, the closely related yellow sweetclover and black medick, yarrow, onions, butte marigold and Colorado rubber plants, a host of all three predominant butterflies (spring azures, inornate ringlets, and pearl crescents), billions of blood-thirsty female mosquitoes, Hunt's and Nevada bumble bees, and the sounds of meadowlarks, flickers, clay-colored sparrows, mourning doves, and nighthawks. New to bloom this week are the blanket flowers, yellow umbrella plants, and wild morning glories. The berries on the skunkbrush are beginning to turn red, and already have a decent citric flavor. The thatching ants are tending to their aphid herds in the not-yet-flowered wavy-leaved thistles. And so many of the grasses I don't know by identification have flower spikes. I walk with my camera out, snapping photos of those who I'll later research

1340 If I thought the mosquitoes were rough on the hike down, those awaiting me in the meadow at the base of the slope comprised a force I was totally unprepared to deal with. They covered me, swarming no doubt to the scent of my sweat and breath. I hated to rush, there were glorious patches of onion in the meadow, but I had to quickly nab the photos off the game cam I keep in the brush here and head quickly to higher ground. Not too surprisingly, given the mosquito density, animal action at the game cam over the past week proved minimal... just one visit each by the coyote and porcupine, and a couple passes from the deer. I climbed the nearest rise to a hilltop overlooking the river confluence, and here, in the shortgrass, I decided to stop and dig up some ma's. Glad I did too. The ground is perfect for it, although the work is still slow-going, and while digging the first one I found an indigenous lady beetle I've never seen before. She's tiny and red, with two black spots on each wing cover, and black line where the wing covers meet, a Winter Lady Beetle

1417 What I wouldn't give for some strong winds right about now. Having uprooted a couple of the turnips, I mustered my courage and tolerance to head back into the meadow for onions. Of course, the mosquitoes approved the plan immediately, "Yes, please do that." In the few minutes it took me to dig perhaps a dozen onions, they had a royal feast, and I was prompted to flee again, this time up the ridge above the rattlesnake hibernaculum, intent to start making my way home. Maybe in a few days the winds would kick up, or the heat would overcome these buggers and send them to the shade of the wood. Right now, it is just too much to handle. On my way up the ridge, making my escape, I am forced to pass through a thick patch of sweetclover. The buzz of the honeybees working there was intense. When I again got into shortgrass, I could see that some of the ball cactus have begun to open their flowers, while the early yellow loco weed so dominant here a couple weeks ago has gone to seed

1448 Descending the ridge, I grab a handful of ninnaika'ksimi and use it like a horse's tail to switch the air in front of my face while I finish my climb to the rim. I've inhaled and gagged on far too many mosquitoes today. All the way up, I'm swarmed relentlessly. Brutal and miserable. After seven weeks of pretty much solid rain, the roots and berries are going to be awesome, but anyone who wants to take advantage of them is definitely going to need to sacrifice

IIII ) lllllllllllllllllllll Spider And Seeding Synchronicity (23June11)

1330 Sspopiikimi - ever the glutton for punishment, I've come out in the hottest part of a brutally warm day, braving the mosquito hordes, so that I might learn more about what insects are on what plants, and which of them the smaller birds are eating and feeding to their hatchlings

1343 Never ceases to amaze me how quickly weather conditions can shift here. When I arrive at the pond, it is sweltering hot with dead-calm air. Ten minutes later, ominous dark clouds slip over the rim of the coulee, and a wind kicks up, prompting the cottonwoods to release some of their seeds. It is a beautiful summer snow, and for now mosquito free in thanks to wind

1401 I walk my usual route in to midpond, passing first one then another of the thatcher highways that cross my trail. At each, there are colony members hauling grubs toward their hives... two different kinds of grub, neither of which I know by sight. I check also at the dome of each of these hives. During my last visit, I mistakenly noted the ants taking in sidewalk carabid beetles. On closer examination of my photos from that day, the "prey" turned out to be ant scarabs, who no doubt landed near the hive intentionally so that they would be brought in, where they could lay their eggs and feed on thatcher larvae. I wanted to get a better look at these new-to-me coleopterons, but there are none to be seen at present

1412 After checking the ant hives, I walk the north cutbank. No garter snakes today, perhaps they sense the pending storm. What is interesting, however, is that the absinthe spiders have begun to build their cocoon-like webs on the seed heads of the old stalks. I'd predicted this event would be coming soon, but I hadn't connected to the seeding of the cottonwoods. Now that I think back on it, we missed this synchronicity the few years of our study out here, not even noticing the spiders because of our presumption that they were merely bunches of the cottony seed, plucked from the air by the plants. Only last year were we finally able to SEE that almost all of these fibers in the absinthe tops were in fact spider webs. I think we did make the connection to the cottonwood seeding at that time, but I'd since forgotten it. I don't think it will be lost to me again

1422 When I get to the extreme north end of the pond, I take a seat on the ground to write out some of these notes. It is a good place to stop anyway, because here there are lots of floating logs from the old boardwalk which the redwing blackbirds, robins, and other hunt for food upon. They are doing so as I arrive, but quickly take wing. I notice, off hidden below the root of a tree along the cutbank, there are three mallard ducklings alone. No other siblings and no mama anywhere that I can see. We've observed this kind of thing before, at about the same stage of development... the mother abandoning her ducklings for a day, then returning again. I'll have to keep an eye out for these three in future visits. I'd like to stay put and wait for the small birds to resume their hunt, but the storm is going to dump rain on me at any moment, and the wind has become fierce. I need to find cover

1448 The best place I can think of is the duck blind at south-pond. Walking as quickly as I might, I move along the levee to the path that will take me to the blind. Here, I've set up a temporary shelter from the rain that is indeed presently falling. My umbrella is a meter square insect drop sheet made of canvas, which I'd brought so that I could shake some of the various bushes to learn what might be camouflaged within. The duck blind is an optimal place to weather the storm also in that it is very close to a redwing nest. In fact, the father has been scolding me the whole while as I've sat here, and the mother dropped by to show me that she's still feeding her hatchlings damselflies. I'm curious though to learn whether she is continuing to use the wolf spiders and green worms I saw her feeding them during my last visit, and I especially want to know where she is procuring those worms

1553 When the rain subsides, I get busy shaking some of the plants within feeding range of this redwing nest. I survey buckbrush, chokecherry, wolf willow, golden currant, and prickly rose. All of them have resident crab spiders, different species to each kind of bush. The buckbrush has the most tiny spider, as well as an unidentified winged yellow big, a green beetle, and small green worms. These may be the worms I noticed the redwings using last week, but they seem smaller. All I get from the chokecherry is a small grey spider. The silverberry has a tiny crab spider and a small black and red beetle. The golden currant (the most spidery) has four different kinds of crabs and one orb-weaver. And the prickly rose has two crab spiders, bluets, and an ambush bug

1625 Figuring that this redwing family had begrudgingly tolerated enough of my nonsense near their nest, I begin making my way north again, following the edge zone of the forest. At first, I continue to survey brush as I move. But finding nothing different, I soon put the gear away in trade for a more comfortable walk. When I come within sight of the swainson nest, I pull out binoculars to check for the incubating mama. From my vantage point so far below, I don't see her, but it doesn't mean she's not there. Indeed, when I come under the nest tree, both she and her husband burst out of the canopy to hover above and scream at me. Then, continuing on, I come to that part of the wet meadows where the big bulberry patch and one of my game cams is found. There is a beaver eating beside the bulberries when I arrive. When I set down my gear, it slides away. Now I must wade out to check my SD card and find out who's been visiting inside the bulberries the past few days

1703 Ducks, ducks, ducklings, and more ducklings. That's whose come around the camera. There may be a surprise or two when I get home and view the images on a regular monitor, but that's what I could make out on the hand-held. The flood waters here seem to have receded at least an inch or two. I didn't have to get my crotch wet as I waded across today. Also, the turtles are starting to take an interest in the area. I crossed paths with five of them on my way back and forth, and really had to watch my step so I didn't crutch any while they applied their primary defense strategy of swimming to the bottom, and hiding in the mud and plants

1543 Feeling a bit worn now that the blue skies and heat have returned, I decide to make my way out through the forest main, around north-pond and back to the vehicle. As I passed through the trees, I was thinking to myself about how I'd yet to come across any of the catbird, warbler, or kingbird nests I know must be here by now. Just as I was having this thought, I peeked into a thick bit of brush around the trunk of a cottonwood and low and behold, there was the most prefect catbird nest. Five eggs and a very upset mama crying at me to go away. Finally, I can go away confident that I'll have at least one catbird nest to try and learn from over the next several weeks

IIII ) llllllllllllllllllllllll Goose Molt (26June11)

0913 Coffee and corvids. Speaking of which, I observed three very different strategies being utilized yesterday by parent corvids when dealing with humans (myself) who pass near to their fledgling young, and an extension of one of these behaviors this morning in an entirely different scenario...

Magpie parents yesterday gave alarm calls that let the fledglings know there was potential danger when I approached. But given my magpie fluency, I was able to speak back and forth with them a bit, and soon they had fledglings down on the ground with them at a careful but close distance from me, and one of the parents even flew away from the scene to gather food elsewhere and bring it back for the young birds, leaving them in my presence all the while. With blue jays, it was a different story. There were no alarm calls at all. The fledglings were a bit younger, and the parents had to go out and search for food alone because the young birds would never be able to keep up. Though I stood even closer to the blue jay fledglings than I had with the magpies, the parents continued to come and go with no sign of trouble, save perhaps for their attempts to stay out of sight themselves. When they'd arrive with food, it would be with a swift and silent fly-in, concealed as much as possible by brush. The same went for their fly-out. Crows were by far the most upset with human presence. Mahoney and I had only to walk past the lot where the crows nest was set, hidden in a large evergreen, and the parents immediately came to meet us, perching in branches above our heads and cawing in alarm. We wouldn't have even known the fledglings were near if not for the parents' anxiety. Their young were about in the same stage of development as the blue jay fledglings, able to fly short distances, but sticking close to the nest (in fact they never left the natal tree). Our proximity to the young crows was about twice as distant as with the magpies, and four or five times as distant as I had been with the blue jays. The fledglings watched quietly as their parents scolded us, never once even making begging calls, as both the magpie and blue jay young did constantly

What to make of this? My initial hypothesis is that the behavioral difference between these otherwise very similar birds has to do with their differential history of treatment by humans. Of these three corvids, certainly the blue jay is least despised by people. Farmers might not like them much, but in urban and suburban settings, humans tend to have some affection for them simply because of their blue color (silly monkeys), and so have not consistently sought to harass or harm them. Perhaps for this reason, the blue jay parents don't find much to be alarmed about when there are humans near their fledglings. Magpies, on the other hand, while also somewhat attractive to people because of their distinct coloration and long, fancy tails, are considered to be too loud. They also have a history of being thought of as magical (hence the "mag" in magpie), and so evoke a bit of residual superstition not aided by their reputation for thievery. The English and their relatives in outlying colonies have made serious attempts to eradicate magpies altogether, and in some locales on their home island are still trying to do so. But here in North America, this English disdain for the birds has been put in check for the last few decades, and magpies - though still often despised - are tolerated. For all of this, the magpie has every reason to give alarm when humans come near their fledglings, but is aware that the chance of a purposeful attack is, for the time being, relatively slim. Best option is to simply keep a safe distance and carry on with life as normal. And then there are the crows... who have had the misfortune of being black of plumage. The English and their colony relatives do not like the color black. It is associated with bad and dangerous things in their culture. Crows have therefore been framed as the evil bird, magically evil, given their intelligence. And crows are loud, all the more call for hatred. As with magpies, there have been serious efforts made to eradicate crows, and all kinds of scare tactics utilized, including the regular construction and placement of life-sized human dolls to ward them off. Because the crow's call is easy to imitate, it is not rare that, even with the relative tolerance shown toward them in the last few decades, humans continue to actively harass them through mocking imitation. Of all the corvids, who are a class generally despised in the dominant European tradition, crows have got the worst rap and no doubt have the most trauma to remember. I would conjecture that this history is what evokes their seeming over-concern with human passers-by in the presence of fledglings

Interestingly, we had an opportunity to witness some crow behavior this morning, in an entirely different, but related scenario. Like every morning, Derrick and I went to spend some time in the back yard with the neighborhood crows and magpies, which I feed daily. All was going as usual, with both types of corvids coming in to get food, taking it from a rail that is no more than a meter from where I'm seated (the magpies have even come to eat from my hand when I've offered). Then Mahoney woke up and she came out holding Keira. The first crow to arrive after Mahoney came out flew in and stood on top of our neighbor's house, studied the scene intently for about three minutes, then gave a croaking call and flew away. It's mate came by about five minutes later, landed on the porch rail, and proceeded to eat, then suddenly realized that Mahoney was holding something that looked very much like another crow. It froze in place and looked carefully. Yes, she was holding a crow. Then it flew down to the fence rail and paced back and forth looking hard at the scene. Eventually, it gave a loud triple call - Aw! Aw! Aw! - and a few seconds later flew away. When neither crow returned after about five minutes, we went in. No sooner did we close the back door than one of the crows swooped in to feed. They had been watching us from a concealed position. Keira, for her part, went to sit by the window and watch them make visit after visit to collect all the kibble from the rail. They knew she was there, and made purposeful close passes at the window to look at her as they came and went, until all the food was gone

1259 Sspopiikimi - no particular agenda today, Mahoney and I are just out for a stroll and a lookabout

1313 We are moving counter-sunrise around the pond today, which means that before passing the ksisskstakioyis our path crosses three different thatcher highways. Not much of anything special appears to be going on at any of the associated hives, probably owing to the rainshowers that have been off and on all morning. The third hive is in disarray, probably victim of a flicker's attention. Far more interesting this afternoon is the state of the ksisskstakioyis, which appears to have collapsed on it's west end. Repairs have of course been made, but now the lodge has a significant bow on this side, where it was well above the floodwaters before

1338 Just past the beaver lodge, we have two welcome encounters. The first is with the Four Square aapsspini family, whose goslings appear to be developing quite well. This is the first time we've ever witnessed yearlings assisting their parents with new goslings. Right now, all four adults are undergoing their molt. Our path is strewn with large feathers, the best of which we collect. Many of them appear to have been crimped near the base and tugged out. Our other encounter is with a fledgling robin, hunting on the short grass of the golf green. It is now on it's own, without any parental guidance, and quite successfully locating it's fare. Like many fledglings though, it is not too concerned with the potential danger of humans, and it allows us to get very close before then running up even closer to snatch a grub

1421 We move unhaltingly around the wide south pool to the river bench by the high level bridge. There, we stop to collect yellow sweetclover flowers, which will be dried at home and converted into vanilla-tasting tea. While picking, I purposely made my way through the wandering garter snake hibernaculum. Sure enough, there are still some large pregnant females here, and I suspect they'll remain all summer. Toward the end of our picking session, high wind gusts kick up, prompting us to head through the forest main, down to the duck blind, to wait it out under cover of Mahoney's umbrella

1508 When the rain subsides, we start hiking north again through the forest main. In the wolf willow near the duck blind, a pair of catbirds were scolding up. A bit of searching turned up their nest, but no eggs yet. The same search also flushed out a fledgling mourning dove, still really awkward at wing. We left it alone, but while we poked around most of the birds around raised a fuss - catbirds, robins, and yellow warblers got into the act. Figuring we'd found the nest, we moved on, and didn't really stop again until the catbird nest on the north end of the forest. There, we found the same five eggs as were waiting a couple days ago, but no incubation underway and, more surprisingly, no scolding mama. I didn't touch the eggs to test for warmth, but perhaps she's just away getting a meal

1517 The rain returns again as we exit the forest, headed toward our vehicle. The showers are not too much of an inconvenience, but it would sure be more comfortable if we'd remember to pack the light ponchos that are always in the back of our car. In any case, despite the rain, we stop at the extreme end of north-pond to look at the basking turtles and a pair of spotted sandpipers. With that last stop, our visit to the pond concludes

Misamssootaa... The Long Rains

IIII ) llllllll Flooded Pond (10June11)

1656 Sspopiikimi - it's been a long absence, two weeks since my last visit. And during that time, and for at least a week prior to that, misamssootaa arrived, the long rains. And as might be expected, the pond and river have flooded. This evening I want to begin surveying, as well as I might, the response... who has suffered, who is benefitting, and why

1706 Even before I come within sight of the water, on my walk from the parking lot toward midpond, I find the robins have weathered the storm, though perhaps with some loss. In the cottonwood alongside the path, a robin couple has a single fledgling exploring the branches. Typically they would have four, but it is difficult for me to know whether the other three were lost to the wet and cold, or to predators. The nest is high enough that I can't peek in

1720 Leaving the robins, who are too alarmed at my presence to make further observation productive for now, I move to the bat tree at the cutbank of north-pond. From here I can see just how much the water has risen. It is like last year, all the way up to the forest edge-zone. Below me, there is a muskrat swimming back and forth along the bank, making a soft squeaking call. Soon he is joined by a mate who swims up beside him and is willing to receive his mount. The coupling looks awkward, with the male quickly sliding off and the female disappearing underwater. I continue to watch, as the male goes back to swimming and calling. Several times more, the female appears, he attempts to mount her, and rolls off unsuccessful. Finally, swimming out to deeper waters, I witness the efforts pay off. It's a brief but effective affair, and when it's over the female swims away to the opposite side of the pond, while the male returns to just below where I'm sitting, climbs up on a floating log, and cleans himself thoroughly for several minutes before sliding back underwater and out of sight

1752 I expect to find wandering garter snakes along the top of the cutbank, and in this I'm not mistaken. I come first across a large shed skin, then two snakes of equal size. All along the way, I see ponokaowahsin, the yellow puccoon, is in high bloom, as is the tartarian honeysuckle. Asparagus is just coming into flower. The golden currant and saskatoon have played out, and are now forming small, green berries. There are still some goldenbean in bloom, some in seed. On the opposite cutbank, below the levee, I see redwing blackbirds, and when I walk over to them I quickly spot one of the nests. It is in the buckbrush along the shoreline, and the male gives it away by dive-bombing me. The couple have five eggs, but aren't incubating yet. I'm pretty sure this would be their second attempt this season. No doubt they would have built their first in the reeds that are now, all but the tips, submersed

1826 The female mosquitoes are all about stabbing and sucking blood today. I'm not wearing poison on my body, so I try to just ignore them and let the ladies have what they need from me. Climbing up the levee, I see that the north wood is flooded out, the water having risen over the top of the river cutbank. There will be no bank swallow nests here this year, as last, and I've yet to see or hear any kingfishers today. Those I do encounter, when dropping into the forest main, are yellow warblers, catbirds, eastern kingbirds, and cedar waxwings. The latter are perched in a Russian olive tree in the wet meadows that is completely submersed at the trunk. From their perches, the waxwings are flittering down to nab things (insects presumably) off the surface of the water. I've never seen them do this before

1903 I have brought a game-cam with me today (RYECAM02), to set up in the dense bulberry thicket of the wet meadows. This clump of brush is at present an island completely surrounded by extension of flooded pond. I have to wade out through thigh-deep waters to reach it. Before I do, I wait for the mallards who are congregated here to depart. There is a mother with a single duckling, another mother with a small group of ducklings (perhaps six or seven), and another female who, when I initially arrive, is being gang-raped by four males. When these ducks become aware of my presence, they paddle away toward south-pond. I enter the water, and almost immediately see a little head pop up about ten or twelve meters away. I figure it for either a turtle or a snake, until it begins slithering through the water straight toward me, and then I know for sure it is a garter. The snake comes to me, investigating my leg. Then, realizing that I am a human being, in dives under the water and conceals itself none too well in some scouring rush. The snake is confident in it's hiding place, and doesn't move even when I crane my body overtop for a good look. I have no idea what was going on in this snake's mind. It obviously confused me with something else, but I have no idea what it could be. I leave the garter and continue to wade out to the bulrush island, find a good position for the camera along the tunnel trail that runs through the brush, then return to the main shore following a new beaver canal

1934 Continuing along the edge zone of the forest main and wet meadows (now pond), I pass at least half a dozen more dive-bombing redwing males. I don't bother making a nest count. I know they're there, and I will attend to that later this week, along with surveying the brush of the forest main itself, where there are no doubt a variety of nests. There is a notable absence of yellow-headed blackbirds, who prefer even more than redwings to place their nests over the water. On some of the submerged wet-meadow willows, there are both eastern and western kingbirds perching in close proximity to one another and, like the waxwings, plucking morsels from the pond surface. With the kingbirds though, this behavior is expected. I am noticing some damselfly bluets about, but no dragonflies yet. The beaver family is out, a couple of their members carrying big piles of mud to add to the top of their lodge, another munching on rabbit willow in the very wet meadows

2003 The last thing I check on in the wet meadows and forest main is the swainson nest. Sure enough, I can just see mama hawk peeking over the edge. Incubation is underway, and we'll be able to watch baby hawk education again. Leaving the forest, I climb the levee and move over toward the garter snake hibernaculum area by the river. Surprisingly enough, there's still a good number if snakes here. One is basking on a rock when I arrive. I turn another rock and find a young snake there, and while I'm looking at it a third, very large and ready to molt garter swings by to investigate. No doubt there are others still here as well. It's a good place, I suppose, to occupy year-round... lots of rock crags and rodents, southern exposure and close proximity to the river, but out of flood's normal reach. Speaking of floods, the Oldman is raging high, but the owl wood is relatively intact. Far more so than during last summer's event

2028 I finish my round with a walk along the west length of the pond, following the shale trail. The whole while, there is a redhead drake flying low, back and forth, from one end of the pond to the other. He eventually lands in north-pond, but only after making at least a dozen laps. On my route, I see the mallard mother with five or six ducklings. I also come across four geese who are together with four goslings. Two of the adults are slightly smaller, and I take them to be perhaps of last-year's brood. There is a coot couple at midpond when I pass, but no chicks. Their nest, probably the one from the south-pond marsh, must have sunk. I also spot a blue-wing teal drake, but no female. My final stop is at the thatching ant hive. The breeding swarm is over, and it's back to business as usual here, which tonight, at this moment anyway, consists of nothing more than the usual thatching activity

IIII ) lllllllll Nighthawk Display (11June11)

1948 Sspopiikimi - Mahoney wanted to take a post dinner walk, so we're out at the pond, making a counter-sunwise round. The dusk shadows are already coming over the water, and the mosquito presence is heavy

2021 There's so much going on here tonight, as we walk the shale trail along the west length, that it's hard to justify stopping to take notes, and so I don't... at least until we get to the bench overlooking the wide south pool. Like yesterday, there are robins and redwing blackbirds galore, yellow warblers singing in the trees, beavers carrying material up the lodge to increase it's height, and the thatching ants are still thatching. There is also a nighthawk in display above the pond this evening, and we encounter two goose families - the group of four adults and four goslings that I saw yesterday, and a single set of parents with another four goslings. We see the mother mallard with six ducklings, same as yesterday. But something I didn't note before was that there's a huge puddle of water down in the dip by the pump-house that runs the golf course sprinkler system. The chorus frogs are singing here as we approach, and then we notice there's also a mallard mama here. Her brood is large, maybe nine or ten ducklings. They scatter frantically across the water to hide in some half-immersed absinthe as we come near. When they hide, a magpie swoops in and perches above them, telling us where they are, waiting for us to act like real animals and kill one or more for food that they might share. With exception of the magpie, it occurs to me that this puddle use by the mama duck is incredibly brilliant. The greatest predator of ducklings here are the pike, and there are certainly none of those freshwater sharks in this puddle. So long as she can keep the wee ones from being hit by coyotes or hawks, they can feed here until a little larger, and greatly decrease the odds of becoming pike dinner when they again enter the pond

2130 We round south-pond, cut down to the duck blind (where we find another redwing nest with eggs), then hike through the forest main. There are hundreds of tree swallows gliding and swooping overhead, and the nighthawk continues to fly by in display. The swainson mama is diligently incubating. Her husband perches not far away, in the forest, constantly under mob attack by the redwings. A few of the plant events I failed to note yesterday... the star-flowered solomon's seal and leafy spurge are still in bloom, just as they were two weeks ago. The cottonwood and poplar panicles have played out, and they now have berries. The chokecherry are in full bloom, and there's purple wild vetch flowering in the forest. When we come back out onto the levee-walk at the north end, there is a killdeer on the trail. They don't have any river shores at present to nest or feed at. We sit down on the river bench for a quick break, and while I'm typing up these notes, listening to the robins and yellow warblers, a kingfisher passes by, flying low above the river, moving upstream

2154 Post-dusk darkness is setting in as we finish our route around north pond and back to the vehicle. A whitetail deer that had been laying down in some brush by the river startles and runs up and over the levee just a little ways in front of us, heading down into the forest main. At north-pond there are muskrats moving around in the reeds. The nighthawk dives and makes the fart-like noise after which his Blackfoot name, pisttoo, derives. We are lamenting not having spent more time out here already this summer, missing some of the details. Perhaps that will be amended from here out

IIII ) llllllllll Giant Water Bug Guards Eggs (12June11)

0920 Pitsiiksiinaikawaahko - I have only a couple hours to make a round-trip hike down to pull the last couple weeks of images off RYECAM01, so rather than noting everything, I'll stick to observations of the changes since my last visit

0959 From the coulee rim down to the rattlesnake hibernaculum (about halfway to the bottom), I'm aware mainly of some of the botanical differences since my previous survey. The dandelions near the rim are mainly in seed now, and there is far more wild vetch from this point down. I see the first blooms of yellow salsify and hound's tongue. The ma's, or prairie turnip, is almost there. Blue flax has erupted tremendously all over the place, as have the onions, butte marigold, black medick, narrow-leaf milkvetch, and missouri milkvetch. Some of the blue penstemon are generating seeds now, others are still in flower. The early yellow locoweed is starting to lose it's luster. All of this flowering and seed generation is going on, but I find surprisingly few insects. Those I have been seeing, primarily, are the butterflies. There are four of them with a strong presence: a sulphur (probably pink-rimmed), spring azure, a brilliant little orange butterfly that I've not been able to photograph yet for later identification, and (most prominently) the inornate ringlet

1051 From the hibernaculum, where I find no snakes, but a flattened bit of grass beside one of the den holes that suggests a large basker, I move onto the ridge above, follow it down to it's base, continue to near the flood plain, where I keep the camera, and return along the same route. Again, I take principal notice of the plants. The goldenbean has gone into seed production. The ball cactus is showing hints of flowers to come. Lower on the slope and in the meadows at the base are blooming yarrow, yellow sweetclover, blue-eyed grass, and prairie smoke. I also direct some attention toward the birds. There are three bald eagles moving in a wide circle above the coulee rim upstream. All around me are eastern and western kingbirds, the buzz of clay-colored sparrows, and the mews of catbirds. I flush a grey partridge, and I hear a ring-necked pheasant in the forest below. The one thatching ant hive that I usually check near the camera has been destroyed, a large pit dug straight into it. A few ants are on the scene yet, but hardly the scene it used to be. In the meadow grass, I find a very strange (suspected) fungus. It is a yellow mass, sponge-like in appearance, but far more damp and flimsy to the touch. I don't see that it has a grounded base, but it seems too large a mass to be insect eggs (note: checking my photographs from this moon last year, I found the same fungus growing on the trunk of a poplar tree). When I get to the camera, I learn that the little trail through the hawthorn brush is still being visited regularly by deer, coyotes, and porcupines. I also have my first image of a male pheasant, and several "empty" photos that will require further inspection on a wide monitor back home

1123 As I hike the rest of the way to the coulee rim, my only objective is to get a good photo of the small orange mystery butterfly. All of the species described on my way down are in the midst of mating. Eventually, near the top, the brilliant little one comes to land very close and seems almost to position itself purposely for the perfect posed photo, and just as quickly flutters away when I have done my job. (note: I identify it in the evening as Pearl Crescent)

1640 Sspopiikimi - it's such a warm day, we couldn't resist coming out for another walk. But the temperature has it's drawbacks too, and already, on our subwise route, we are neglecting to look very closely

1652 We've stuck to the shale trail, making our way around quickly to the shade of the forest main. Here perhaps we'll slow things down. Along the way, my eyes have been fixed to the trail, and any insects who happened to be crossing at our feet. There are many thatcher ants about today. One of them we saw carrying what appeared to be a segment of grub. We also came across two sidewalk carabids before we got to the forest, and one water beetle crossing the levee in about the same place we saw and photographed another at the beginning of summer. How they know there's a pond on one side and a river on the other is beyond me, separated as they are by the high levee. Perhaps we need to post a small "water beetle crossing" sign here. The bluets are out, though few of them yet, and there were at least thirty turtles of various age basking on the floating wood around the north-pond marsh

1748 Mahoney moves through the forest heading to the duck blind, while I wade out into the thigh-deep water of the wet meadows to access the small island of bulberries where I situated another game cam two days ago. This time, no garters come to meet me as I enter the water. I arrive on the island thankfully without leaches, and climb through the tunnel trail to my camera. It has taken several images that include mallard drakes, an unidentified small mammal in the night, crows and grackles... a cool assemblage, far different from what I'm getting off my other camera at the confluence. On my way back to the shore after downloading the pics, I came across the king insect of the pond - a giant water bug. It is huge, resembling a large cockroach. It is sitting atop a floating piece of wood, right beside and guarding a cluster of eggs. In all our years coming here, the only sign of these bugs we've seen are their backs, rising up like heavy raindrops on the pond surface. To find one exposed like this is a huge thrill

1848 Mahoney and I rendezvous at the duck blind, and then head up toward the garter snake hibernaculum. There is a large snake basking when we get there, but it quickly slithers out of sight. I then lift the same small rock where I found a young garter a few days ago. Nothing. Not even the small lasius pallitarsis ant colony who were hidden here before. As we walk away from the hibernaculum though, I have to stop short to avoid stepping right on top of a very young snake, one that must have just been born at the end of last summer. We continue around south-pond and along the shale trail that runs the west length, passing both goose families as we go. No sign today of the mallard mamas and their broods, but there's plenty of partially submerged grass and reeds to hide in. Near to where we turn off the trail to go to the car, there's a wide but shallow puddle. And to our surprise, this afternoon it's occupied by a large painted turtle. This is the time of year when they lay their eggs, while the ground is still soft from the rains. I suspect this turtle mama is planning to dig her nest here at the puddle's edge. Unfortunately, there are service vehicles that drive over this area. I pick her up and bring her back down to the pond, so that she can select a different site

Coyote, Rattler, And Thunder

IIII ) lllllllllllllllllllllll Coyote, Rattler, and Thunder (28May11)

1000 Pitsiiksiinaikawaahko - today is the annual May species count for the city of Lethbridge, and I have been asked to participate by generating a list of all the birds, mammals, insects, herps, and plants in bloom that I observe along my usual survey at the confluence

1012 It has been raining non-stop for more than a week now, so I don't know how many insects will be encountered, and it's very unlikely I'll be able to log rattlesnakes on the list this year, but with the aid of a flashlight and a willingness to peek into holes, we'll see what happens

1034 I begin my count from the moment I walk out my door, where there are magpies and crows visiting our back yard. On the short one kilometer drive from my door to the coulee rim above the confluence, I observe rock doves landing in a stubble field, brewers blackbirds searching for seeds in the same fields, mallard ducks, northern pintails, blue-winged teals and northern shovelers inhabiting prairie potholes, a whimbrel walking the shoreline of one of the potholes, American robins hunting worms on the gravel road, and a western meadowlark singing from atop a powerline. With the window of my vehicle open, I also hear boreal chorus frogs and killdeer

1113 Arriving at the coulee rim, I hear other meadowlarks, as well as Canada geese in the distance. A grey partridge flushes from the grass, and a lone tree swallow flies by at close range. My attention, however, is mainly focused on the ground, taking in the flowering plant species as I start my way down the slope. In the short distance between the parking lot and the bench overlooking the flooded coulee, there are dandelions, two species of musineon, yellow prairie violets, blue penstemon, yellow pucoon, early yellow locoweed, Missouri milkvetch, a ground-hugging purple vetch, narrow-leaved milkvetch, prairie onion, moss phlox (with flowers playing out), goldenbean, butte marigold, colorado rubber plant (with flowers open but no petals yet), bastard toadflax, and tiny spikerushes. Some of the yarrow have buds, but they're not yet open. Pollinating almost every dandelion flower are tiny (photographed) two-winged flies

1155 From the coulee rim to the rattlesnake hibernaculum situated about half way down the slope, I observe more of the same plants as noted above, the only additions being a tiny yellow mustard with a slender stalk growing from a basal rosette of spatula-shaped leaves (possibly small-seeded false flax), plus skunkbrush sumac and cushion milkvetch, both of the latter nearing the end of their flowering cycle. The prairie groundsel is almost in flower, but not opening quite yet. There are several animals to add to the list: a clay-colored sparrow (heard but not seen), a ring-necked pheasant (heard but not seen), a seven spot lady beetle, whitetail deer and northern flickers on the slope, a herd of mule deer along the tree-line below, and a beautiful black widow spider inhabiting the third entrance to the rattler den. The widow not only has the classic hour-glass on her belly, but also yellow and red designs in a line up her back. Really amazing. Unfortunately no snakes though

1301 From the hibernaculum on down to the sagebrush flats and the trail through the brush where I keep my game-cam, the count feels to slows down considerably. I repeatedly observe all the same species as higher up. However, at the transition to the floodplain, there are some new flowers to note: golden currants, saskatoons, saline shootingstar, prairie smoke, white pussytoes, the first-flowering black medick, and a scant few yellowbells that haven't shifted to seed. All the prairie crocus are gone already. There are pink-rimmed sulphur butterflies moving around on the meadows of the sagebrush flat. At the base of the coulee slope, thick with goldenbean, there are Hunt's bumble bees pollinating. I find the larger Nevada bumble bees dormant in the grass, and a very few thatching ants out on the hive. Also nearby, among the dandelions, I see a second two-winged fly (one of the "flower-loving flies" I think) pollinating and find a running crab spider that blends in with the dry grass, waiting in ambush beside one of the flowering heads. As I watch, the spider takes out an unfortunate visiting insect, something like a small leaf-hopper

1340 The game cam had recorded visits by porcupines, coyotes, and several deer over the past week, none of which I suppose can be counted on my species list for today unless I see them myself, even though they have a permanent presence. After resetting the camera, I drop down to the river proper. The Oldman is so swollen, there are enormous trees floating by and the water is breaching the forest. I look around to see what other plants and animals I can add from this micro-environment. There are the leafy spurge, in flower and being pollinated by more flower-loving flies and hover flies. There are cabbage white butterflies flitting about. The trees themselves are in flower: balsam poplar, western cottonwood, narrow-leaf cottonwood. The Sun has come out briefly, and the birds are singing from the forest canopy. I hear and see yellow-rumped warblers, starlings, robin's, redwing blackbirds, and mourning doves. A few mosquitoes are about, not much of a bother, and I see some of the crane flies who are hunting them in the grass. I survey all the trees surrounding the mid-forest meadow, hoping to log the great horned owl family, but they are elsewhere this afternoon, probably perching somewhere along the flooded oxbow where they can take advantage of fleeing rodents. I can hear the approach of a bird that I'm sure nobody else will officially note today. It is Ksiistsikommiipi'kssi, the Thunderbird. No doubt there will be a drenching on the way, so I figure I might as well head back up to the sagebrush flats, and from there make my ascent of the coulee slope

1404 I emerge from the forest at the old cottonwood I call Grampa Tree. It's ancient and massive, with branches drooping to the ground that are larger than most mature trees in the forest. Just as I come into the sagebrush flat, a coyote begins howling and barking in greeting from nearby, low on the slope. I squat down and call back to animal, and it continues it's greeting. I stand up to walk closer, take two steps and stop. My next step would have come down right beside a dark, yearling prairie rattlesnake. It is basking on some grass beside a hole that it has chosen for it's summer den. I crouch down again beside the snake, who is perfectly calm. The whole scene is bringing a lump to my throat. The coyote continues to call at me, the snake rests peacefully within arms distance, and the Thunderbird is now roaring right overhead

1425 When the heavy raindrops begin, I walk. The coyote follows me, stopping now an then to call after me. I return the howls and yips. By the time I reach the path that will take me up the slope, the rain has turned to hail, and there's lightning clashes. I fairly march up to the coulee rim, looking arouforgery little. One final flowering species grows beside the trail in a wet pocket near the top. It is field pennycress. I take a few leaves to munch as I finish the climb, and soon reach my vehicle very pleased with the close of this visit

1427 This world is so beautiful, I've just got a lump in my throat. Twenty minutes ago, I was crouched down in the sagebrush flats at the bottom of the coulee, a coyote calling to me in greeting from low on the slope beside me, a perfectly calm rattlesnake literally within arms reach, and the thunder roaring overhead. It doesn't get better

Birds [22 species]: Black-Billed Magpie, American Crow, Rock Dove, Northern Pintail, Mallard Duck, Western Meadowlark, Brewer's Blackbird, Blue-Winged Teal, Whimbrel, American Robin, Killdeer, Canada Goose, Tree Swallow, Clay-Colored Sparrow, Grey Partridge, Northern Flicker, Ring-Necked Pheasant, Yellow-Rumped Warbler, Mourning Dove, Starling, Redwing Blackbird, Ksiistsikomiipi'kssi (Thunderbird)

Mammals [4 species]: Mule Deer, Whitetail Deer, Mountain Cottontail, Coyote

Herps [2 species]: Boreal Chorus Frog, Prairie Rattlesnake

Plants In Bloom [32 species]: Dandelion (Taraxacum officinale), two Musineon species (one with extremely segemented parsley leaves, the other with far fewer segments, both described as Musineon divaricatim), Tiny Spikerush (species unknown), Missouri Milkvetch (Astragalus missouriensis), Wild Vetch (Vicia americana), Narrow-Leaved Milkvetch (Astragalus pectinatus), Early Yellow Locoweed (Oxytropis monticola), Prairie Onion (Allium textile), Blue Penstemon (Penstemon nitidus), Yellow Pucoon (Lithospermum incisum), Goldenbean (Thermopsis rhombifolia), Butte Marigold (Taxacum officinale), Colorado Rubber Plant (Hymenoxys richardsonii), Bastard Toadflax (Comandra umbellata), Yellow Prairie Violet (Viola nuttallii), Moss Phlox (Phlox hoodii), Cushion Milkvetch (Astragalus gilviflorus), Skunkbrush Sumac (Rhus trilobata), tiny yellow mustard that might be Small-Seeded False Flax (Camelina microcarpa), Golden Currant (Ribes aureum), Saskatoon (Amelanchier alnifolia), Saline Shootingstar (Dodecatheon pulchellum), Yellowbell (Fritillaria pudica), Prairie Smoke (Geum triflorum), White Pussytoes (binominal unknown), Black Medick (Medicago lupulina), Leafy Spurge (Euphorbia esula), Balsam Poplar (Populus balsamifera), Narrow-Leaf Cottonwood (Populus angustifolia), Western Cottonwood (Populus deltoides), Pennycress (Thlaspi arvense)

Insects/ Arachnids [12 species]: Unidentified Tiny Two-Winged Fly (pollinating dandelion), Seven Spot Lady Beetle, Black Widow Spider, Hunt's Bumble Bee, Nevada Bumble Bee, Flower-Loving Fly, Running Crab Spider, Western Thatching Ant, Cabbage White Butterfly, Mosquito, Crane Fly, Hover Fly